To be honest, this chapter is mostly comfort (hehe), but we hope you enjoy! :D And thank you all for the wonderful support! We've been completely blown away by the love! :')
Peter came to awareness slowly. Voices floated above him, though he couldn't discern who they were, or what they were saying. Everything hurt, the pain in his back blinding, and he felt too hot, like he did before the spider serum, feverish and sick. Or when he was rescuing people from building fires and spent too long exposed to the flames, returning home with burning, fire licked wounds.
He tried to shift against the hard surface he was curled against, but his limbs wouldn't co-operate.
He started as he was thrown. The sudden movement was jarring, and jostled his injuries. He cried out.
"Spidey!"
"Sorry, pot hole! My bad!"
It was a struggle to move. His body felt heavy, and fatigue pushed against his eyes. He slowly unfurled his limbs and shook his head, as though to kick-start his brain, muddling through his heavy, soupy thoughts.
"Whaa?" he slurred. The sunlight hurt his eyes, and his throat felt raw.
"Spidey," came a soft, calming voice. Peter blinked into a pair of worried hazel eyes. "Spidey, hey. Hi. How you doing, buddy?"
"Whaaa?" Peter swallowed roughly. "Wheear?"
"Where are you?" Peter nodded, yes. "You're in the back of a police car. We—"
Police car. Peter's eyes snapped open beneath the goggles of his mask. He looked beyond the kind hazel eyes, past the boyish face, and at the uniform. It was stained with huge amounts of blood, and a little dusty, but it was unmistakably the dark navy of a police uniform, complete with badge and a gun strapped at the man's side.
Peter flinched back against the car door. "NO!"
The police officer seemed surprised. "Spidey?"
The man brought up a hand to touch him, and Peter curled further away. He was breathing too-fast, frantic. Panicked. This couldn't happen, how did he get here; how did he let himself get captured again—
"Please," Peter tried. His voice sounded wet. "Please, I'm—I'm a good guy, you don't need to—need to—" Peter cut off, panting. Adrenaline raced through his veins, surpassed only by the instinctual fear he felt all over, making his heart beat frantically in his chest, a hummingbird battling against its bone cage.
Reasoning with the police was useless, Peter knew. No matter how many times he tried to convince them he was trying to help, they still shot him. They still distrusted him.
"Spidey! Spidey, hey! You're okay! You're with us; we're the police, okay? We're going to take good care of you."
Peter scrambled at the car door, fingers scraping against the door uselessly. He was too weak to properly man an escape. He was aware of hands coming forward, trying to brace him, and he cried out again and flinched back.
"He's freaking out, Jack!"
"I know! Why is he—?"
"Jack… Jack, I think he might be frightened of us."
"Well, yeah, I can see that!"
"No. No, I think he knows we're cops, and that's why he's frightened."
Silence reigned in the car, broken only by the sounds of outside New York, and Peter's rough, panicked breathing. The others were still. That, if nothing else, convinced Peter to open his eyes, calm down enough to survey his surroundings.
The hazel-eyed officer was in the backseat with him, but braced against the opposite door. He was staring at Peter with huge eyes, and looked sad and mournful, as though Peter was breaking his heart.
In the rearview mirror, Peter could see the driver of the car, a police woman, her hair streaked blonde, wearing a pinched, deliberating expression. Her eyes, too, were sad.
"Spidey…" murmured the younger one. His voice was low, calming. Somehow, it was familiar. "Spidey, hey, pal."
That voice, where had he heard it before? Why was it so recognisable?
Peter groaned, suddenly feeling exhausted, and placed a gloved palm to his head. What happened? He couldn't remember anything but noise, fire, and pain. Lots and lots of pain. Had he been hurt? Had someone helped him? But he was in a police car, and policemen meant pain. They never helped him. A wave of panic washed over him and he gasped, fingers beginning to shake as the full consequences of his adrenalin rush hit him.
Peter suddenly coughed and rasped, throat so dry he could barely swallow, exposure to the fire having left him choked up.
"W-water, he needs water! There's a bottle in the compartment under the dash of the passenger seat. Can you hand it over?" Jack yelled, panicked, to the woman driving. She quickly leaned over, without taking her eyes off of the road, and grabbed a see-through water bottle, passing it to Jack, who grabbed it quickly.
"Spidey. Hey, here," he said tentatively, as he held out the bottle.
Peter could see the cool liquid sloshing around inside, his dry mouth longing for it so badly. But instead, he shrunk back further again, panting—fear preventing him from receiving the much-needed substance.
"Spidey, look. Here." Jack popped open the lid of the bottle, and poured a small amount onto his hand. "Water, see?" he said, holding his wet hand up as proof.
"Jack, I don't think he trusts you," the woman said seriously, taking glances at what was going on in the back through the rear view mirror.
Jack choked, "I-I know. But I don't, I don't know…" He couldn't stop the growing tears, too overwhelmed and exhausted. He lowered the water bottle in his hand, cheeks becoming wet.
That voice, Peter knew it. He remembered soothing whispers and gentle touches breaking through the pain—oh that pain—and the fear, grounding him. He knew this man, and for some reason felt the slightest nudge of trust towards him from somewhere deep in his subconscious.
Slowly, biting back the pain, he moved from his fetal position next to the door, and crawled towards the man.
"Jack," Marissa suddenly said, breaking through Jack's distressed state. He just made a sad sniffing noise in reply, tears continuing to fall from closed eyes. "Jack!" She yelled again, more urgently this time, and Jack felt a strangely textured hand weakly probe at his.
His eyes snapped open to find Spidey crouched before him, trying to get to the water bottle.
Jack's eyes became wide, and he quickly straightened up, tears forgotten, and lifted the bottle.
"Here, you want some?" he asked as calmly and softly as he could, so to not startle Spidey in his unstable state.
Peter's hands clung on to his wrist, before he hesitantly reached up to the seam of his mask, and without a second's delay, lifted it above his nose, exposing his mouth.
Jack's breath hitched and Marissa gasped from the driver's seat. But they didn't have time to think about this as Jack guided the bottle to Spidey's dry lips. He stared with wide eyes and a shocked expression of disbelief, as Peter took a slow, tentative sip.
He swallowed, and Jack flinched with him at the obvious discomfort as it went down his raw throat, the feeling bittersweet as it both soothed and hurt him.
Peter took a few more gulps, surprisingly slower than what would have been expected from someone in his thirsty state.
"Hey," Jack said sadly, as he reached up to touch Spidey's sore neck in a soothing, reassuring manner.
The minute his fingers came in contact with his throat though, Peter freaked, the touch being frightening and invasive, as he thought he was being choked, and rocketed back to the farthest side of the seats, bottle with him. He curled there, gasping once again, as the pain in his back consumed him from the sudden movement, frightened eyes staring at Jack beneath glossy bug lenses.
"I'm sorry, I thought—I'm so sorry, Spidey, I didn't want to scare you. I was only trying to help, I'm so sorry!" Jack panicked, an explosion of apologies tumbling from him. "Spidey? Come on." He tried to reach out towards Peter, but he only flinched away again.
"Jack, Jack just leave him—leave him be for a while, you'll only make it worse," Marissa said, glancing at them again.
Jack sighed, giving one last look at Peter's frightened form—whose eyes had yet to leave him— before settling down in his seat, and looking out the window instead.
The rest of the trip was slow, Spidey barely moving from his position at the door. His head would drop in obvious exhaustion every now and then, and pained whimpers of distress would escape him every time they went over a bump, causing Jack's heart to pang with sorrow. Spidey held onto the water bottle the whole time, but it worried Jack to notice he wasn't drinking any more of it, just clinging onto it with shaking hands.
"We're here!" He was broken out of his thoughts by Marissa yelling, pulling the car to a stop.
"Where are we?" Jack asked.
"My place, I couldn't think of anywhere else to take him. The kids won't be home for a few hours, so we have a bit of time," she said, opening her door and getting out.
Jack looked over at Spidey, who was looking at him again, having lifted his head from where it had been resting, as Marissa opened the door behind him.
Nervously, he gently held out his arms towards the hero in a welcoming way. "Spidey. Pal? Come on. We've got to take you inside so we can help you feel better. You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you," he said, eyes trusting and kind, as if he was talking to a frightened animal.
Spidey didn't move.
"Hey, come on, it's alright. Would you like some hot chocolate? I could get you some chocolate. Or—or maybe we could cut up some sandwiches? Anything you like, just let us help you," he coaxed.
"Hot chocolate is too warm, he's already overheated," Marissa stated from behind. "And aren't sandwiches kind of corny? He's not a little kid, you don't need to cut the crusts off for him," she added. Jack couldn't help but laugh a little.
"Well, you try and come up with something better," he replied, the slightest of smiles on his face.
The light change of atmosphere seemed to do the trick, as Spidey relaxed slightly, and without being entirely sure what he was doing, crawled into Jack's arms.
Jack quickly scooped him up, holding him gently to his chest, eyes wide once again with the fact that he'd moved at all, before he began to walk towards the front door.
The minute they walked in, he let out a breath he'd been holding in relief—for Spidey hadn't tried to bolt in those few minutes they were outside.
"Put him down on the couch in the living room. I'll get some water and cloths to clean those wounds with," Marissa ordered, as she disappeared around a corner. Jack was left standing in the middle of the entrance with an armful of half-conscious vigilante.
Jack felt strange, off-kilter. Only two hours ago he was receiving word that a nearby bank was being robbed, and now here he was, standing in the home of a colleague he rarely talked to, holding New York's famous hero in his arms after having narrowly missed being blown to pieces by an errant bomb. He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Still, his grip on Spidey as he ventured further into the house, trying to search out the living room, was strong and sure.
He placed Spidey gently down on the sofa. Immediately, the vigilante curled away from him, huddling against the protective back of the couch, legs and arms tucked in. Spidey had risked his life for Jack, but he didn't trust him enough to be near him?
Marissa returned soon after. She placed several more bottles of water, pre-wrapped sandwiches, and a lukewarm bowl of clean water on the coffee table. She shoved a wet cloth into Jack's hands.
"Okay," Marissa began, staring down at Spidey. She looked determined, like a woman about to go to war. "Okay, how do we do this?"
"How do we do what?"
"How do we help him without getting kicked in the face?"
Jack considered that. He eyed Spidey dubiously. "That…that may be a challenge, yes."
A sore, croaky voice interrupted them both. "You could just ask?" Spidey said, looking up at them.
"You'd let us?" Marissa asked, skeptical. "After the fuss you kicked up in the back seat?"
Jack opened his mouth to argue, to defend Spidey, but Marissa waved him off. Spidey tried to shift on the couch, but stopped, making a pained mewling sound as the movement stretched raw, too-tight skin.
"Maybe," Spidey finally admitted. He had nowhere else to go, after all. They all knew it. He couldn't limp away to lick his wounds someplace else; he was too injured to move, and the worried cops wouldn't allow him to go without helping him first. "If—if you do it." Spidey pointed weakly at Jack. "And stay where I can see you at all times. And everyone gets rid of their guns!"
Marissa snorted. "Already hung up my gun. I have two kids; I have a strict 'no visible guns in the house' policy." She took Jack's gun from him, and left, calling out—tone joking, "And I can see where I'm not wanted! You kids party without me, see if I care!"
Somehow, Jack coaxed Spidey into giving him his injured arm. He began dabbing at the scraped up wound, doing his best to clean away dirt, and crusted blood, and pick away pieces of the melted spandex suit. Spidey remained quiet throughout. His chin was tucked against his chest, his head tilted defensively. Spidey's taut body language made it obvious that he was uncomfortable, afraid, ready to jump away at the smallest sign of danger.
Jack had lots of experience taking care of people, despite being in his early twenties. When he was younger, he developed this desperate, driving need to help the people of New York—the main reason he joined the NYPD—and so he had volunteered at the local hospital during high school. Mostly, he had been stacking shelves and cleaning and running after the nurses, but sometimes, late at night when the ER was the busiest and there weren't enough staff to calm the bleeding, crying masses, Jack would end up bustling between people, rubbing at shoulders and whispering reassurances.
He did that now; using all of his experience to quell the fear visible in Spidey's shaking hands. Whether the tremors were from his extensive injuries, crashing adrenaline, or real fear, Jack didn't know.
"I bet Marissa has kids' toys hidden all over this place," Jack began. He enjoyed this tactic. Reassuring babbling, he called it. It was effective. As he spoke, he smoothed gentle hands over Spidey's arms. "Moms always end up shoving toys around the house, especially the living room. When my older brother had kids, he completely refused to buy any of those brightly coloured storage containers, said it was too domestic, but by the time my nephew was two, there were at least three of them beneath the TV."
Spidey wasn't leaning so obviously away from Jack anymore. "There's some on the bookshelf," he said, almost shyly. "Full of plastic cars. Saw it on the way in."
"You don't miss a trick, do you?" Spidey stiffened, as though worried he'd given too much away, but Jack just continued smoothly. "Parenthood is terrifying, I tell you. It sneaks up on you. I get shivers whenever I use the bathroom at my brother's house; there is a mountain of tiny rubber ducks in the bathtub. A mountain."
Spidey laughed beneath the mask, the sound breathy and quiet. It warmed Jack's heart. "They're just kids, man."
"It's scary," Jack insisted, smiling. Spidey was going limp under his careful hands. "Can you turn onto your front for me?"
Spidey froze, and leaned away.
"I just want to fix your back, okay?" Spidey didn't move. "Please? I won't hold you down or anything. I'm just going to check over the bandages and clean you up."
Hesitantly, movements slow, Spidey turned onto his front. Jack was careful, impossibly gentle, as he dipped the cloth into the bowl of lukewarm water, and dabbed lightly at the wound spread over the hero's back.
When Marissa came back, weighed down with more supplies, she found Jack chatting about inane subjects, Spidey a puddle of co-operative goo under his hands.
"Are you," Marissa began. "Are you two discussing gardening?"
"It's important," Jack said, deadpan. Marissa stared at him. Jack laughed at her expression, and moved away from the couch. "Okay, Spidey, I'm all finished."
Spidey slowly turned back over on his side, now facing Jack, seeming to relax a bit more into the couch.
A few moments of quiet silence followed, before Marissa spoke up. "Here, get some of this into him, it's only for kids and teens, but it's the best I could do," she said, as she handed Jack a bottle of liquid pain killers. "And give him something to eat, he must be hungry," she added, nudging at the sandwiches as she dumped other medicines on the table, before heading off somewhere else in the house. She knew Spidey didn't trust her as much as Jack, and didn't want to get in the way.
Spidey watched Jack as he brought the small bottle to his face, reading the label. "Ha, strawberry flavored, it should taste nice. Although, it's a little out of your age range, but oh well," he babbled, as he took off the lid and began to pour a little more than the suggested amount in it.
"Not necessarily," Spidey whispered, and then froze as he realized what he'd said.
Jack stopped, before his head snapped round to look Spidey directly in his masked face. "You—you're…" He paused, finding the words to say through his surprise, "are you… young?" he finally asked, his face that of absolute shock and bewilderment.
Spidey curled himself a little tighter on the couch.
"No, hey, it's alright, it's alright. Just..." He took in a big breath. "Wow. Wasn't expecting that," he said, looking at the vigilante searchingly, an odd protective concern coming over him. "Anyway," he suddenly said, changing the subject, sensing Spidey's discomfort, "we'd better get this into you. It'll help with the pain, if only a little." He reached out a hand to lift Spidey's head. He was slow at first, mindful of Spidey's previous reactions, but was surprised when Spidey stayed still this time, and allowed him to cradle his head.
"Right, ok, you wanna—you wanna lift your mask again?" he asked nervously, motioning to said mask. Spidey seemed to contemplate his question, before he spoke.
"Might as well," he said tiredly, "not like you haven't seen my jaw before." He then reached up and pulled the mask away from his mouth.
Jack gently lifted his head a little higher, before moving the lid of medicine forward. Spidey opened his mouth and allowed Jack to pour it in, before swallowing it down, finding the taste was indeed pleasant.
"There, that wasn't so bad," Jack said, replacing the lid to the bottle and putting it on the low table. "Would you like something to eat? Let's see what we've got here," he then went on to say in a friendly, talkative manner, as he unwrapped one of the sandwiches, taking a look inside. "Ham and cheese with some tomato. What do you say, Spidey? Would you like a ham, cheese and tomato sandwich?"
Spidey was just silent, almost appearing to be studying him. Why, Jack wasn't sure.
"I don't know about you, but I'll take that as a yes," he replied. "Come on, you're gonna need to sit up a bit." He moved closer to Spidey, and tried to help him sit up gently. Spidey obeyed, lifting himself up a little, but he found himself way to exhausted, and immediately began to fall back down. "Whoa, whoa, it's alright, you're alright," Jack coaxed, as he moved to brace Spidey, leaning him on his side as he also sat on the couch, with an arm around his shoulders. "There, that better?"
Spidey just grunted in reply, finding himself panting slightly from exhaustion. God, he felt so hot.
"Hey, hey, buddy, you're alright, you're okay," Jack soothed, rubbing Spidey's shoulders slightly as he settled down. "Here, have something to eat, it'll help you feel better." He moved the sandwich in front of Spidey's mouth. It took a few seconds, but Spidey finally took a tentative bite out of the meal. "Good. Good buddy, good," Jack encouraged, as he slowly ate the sandwich.
When he was done, Jack took the forgotten bottle still held in one of Spidey's hands, and brought it to Spidey's lips. "Come, you need to drink. You're dehydrated," he said, with a slight edge of concern, and he felt relief when Spidey took a few sips without protesting.
Moving carefully, he laid Spidey back down on the couch, before getting up and stretching, also feeling tired himself.
It was at that moment, which Marissa walked back into the room. "Hey, you done? How's he doing?" she asked, taking a glance at the much more relaxed looking red and blue form.
"Better, much better," Jack replied, with a touch of pride in his tone.
"I can hear you, ya know?" Spidey piped up, tiredly. Jack laughed.
"Yeah, we know, buddy. We know," he replied, humorously, but not without kindness.
Marissa nodded. "Good," she said, before moving over to sit in a chair. "What a day," she sighed, relieved to be sitting down.
"Tell me about it," Jack agreed, as he sat on the edge of the coffee table. "Not every day you nearly get blown up by a bomb."
This seemed to spark some recognition from Spidey, and he shifted slightly, memories beginning to come back into his exhausted, muddled brain.
"Well, if it wasn't for this little guy, we'd both be dead. For that, we thank you," Marissa replied, directing the last part at Spidey, who was silently following the conversation. He nodded in response, too tired to do much else. This seemed to spark a small smile across Marissa's lips.
"Yeah, he's a good guy. Aren't you, Spidey?" Jack said, giving Spidey a friendly smile. Spidey couldn't reply anymore though, as he was feeling too hot, breathing slightly heightened and panting. He let out a low, soft groan.
Jack instantly straightened up, eyes becoming concerned. "Spidey?" he asked. When he received no obvious reply, he got up, and moved back towards the vigilante.
Spidey felt a gentle hand brush his forehead, and couldn't help but lean into it slightly, his eyes now closed from tiredness.
"Oh, he's really hot!" Jack said, as he looked back at Marissa, concerned.
"Use one of the clean cloths; you need to cool him down. The heat from the fire has probably raised his body temperature too much," she ordered, also appearing concerned, even though she bit it back more than Jack did—not showing it as much. He quickly looked on the table for a clean cloth. Finding one, he snatched it up, before pouring some cool water onto it, and turning back towards the hero.
"Wha—what do I do?" he asked, upon noticing Spidey was covered in spandex, therefore he couldn't reach the skin.
"Just move the suit away from his jaw and neck as much as possible and dampen his skin. A lot of blood flow moves through there anyway, so it should help," she responded, and Jack quickly did what was asked.
Reaching forward, he gently peeled the spandex away from as much of Spidey's neck as possible, before gently placing the cloth over it.
Spidey sighed the instant he felt the blissful coolness touch his skin, and leaned his head back slightly, wanting more.
Jack obliged by gently dabbing the cloth all around the vigilante's neck, making sure he covered the back of his neck and jaw, re-wetting it when it started to become dry. Spidey instantly felt the burning sickness within him ease, and the consuming heat begin to fade, his breath already beginning to even out.
"There you go buddy, you like that?" Jack said with a smile, noticing Spidey's response, and continued to happily cool Spidey's neck, his caring instincts kicking in.
They stayed like that for quite some time, not an ounce of protest coming from the hero—a startling change from the half-coherent, arguing mess he'd been in the back seat of their cruiser—before Spidey suddenly yawned.
He opened up his mouth wide, showing off his teeth and pink tongue—Jack happening to notice the lack of sharp fangs or spidery teeth—before snapping it shut, sticking his tongue out momentarily, and swallowing.
Jack's eyebrows rose; logically, he knew the hero was likely a regular person underneath the spandex, but somehow he expected something different. Something else beneath the mask—inhuman or visibly dangerous or grotesque. Something that warranted the hate directed at Spider-Man.
"Ok, that was adorable. I'm surprised at just how "non-menacing" he is," Marissa suddenly said, and Jack couldn't help but burst out into a laugh as he continued to gently dab at the hero's throat.
It didn't take long after that, for Spidey to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
"Wow, I think he's asleep," Jack whispered quietly, as he noticed Spidey go limp and relaxed, his breathing deep and even.
"Really?" Marissa said, looking up from the magazine she'd started reading. Jack could hear the hint of a smile in her voice. "Never thought that'd happen."
"I know. Guess he's just a big softy underneath all that heroic strength and toughness," he giggled, moving the cloth gently around Spidey's chin.
"If you say so," Marissa replied.
"Oh come on, just look at him, all relaxed and cute—"
"Yeah when he's sleeping maybe, but you saw what he was like in the car, all frantic and dangerous. Don't trust him too much. He's still a superhuman vigilante, you know," Marissa protested, cutting him off, as she put down her magazine and reached for the TV remote.
Jack huffed. "Well, I don't believe her; you're harmless, aren't you, Spidey?" he said to the sleeping form's masked face, as he took the cloth away and rested the back of his fingers against Spidey's skin, as gentle as a feather, checking his temperature. Satisfied, he pulled the spandex back over the hero's neck, tucking in the seams.
Marissa just shook her head at him, and switched to the news channel. Instantly, a breaking headline was splayed across the screen.
"Barely an hour ago, a bomb went off at a bank in downtown Manhattan as a group of thugs wearing balaclavas attempted to rob the building, taking several hostages. The culprit died at the scene, but luckily no one else was killed, due to the intervention of the local hero, Spider-Man. Unfortunately, things didn't go as smoothly as hoped, as Spider-Man was injured in the blast saving the life of young police officer, Jack Stevensons. Warning, the images we are about to show you may disturb some viewers."
Jack turned around from his place perched on the edge of the couch, to stare at the images from earlier that day now being played on the screen.
He watched himself as he was pressed against the car, the same figure holding him there that was now currently snoozing peacefully next to him, his back ripped up and bloody, officers and paramedics rushing to try and pull him away. A pang of hurt formed in his throat as he watched Spidey panicking and screaming, his past self calming him, whispering to the hero as the paramedics got to work. It looked much worse when he watched it back like this, the full brunt of what had happened hitting him.
The scene ended with him carrying Spidey to his car, he and Marissa taking off with him.
He couldn't help but look back down at the sleeping form as silence filled the house.
"No one knows where the hero was taken, or if he's ok, leaving many New Yorkers deeply concerned for Spidey's current wellbeing," the newsreader finished. Marissa turned off the TV.
They shared a look of sadness, before Jack realized that now every cop in the city knew what they'd done. But he couldn't worry about that right now; he had a sleeping Spidey to watch over.
It was a few hours later, and they had been chatting softly (so as not to wake the hero), eating some sandwiches themselves, before Marissa disappeared into the house again to do something else. What, Jack didn't know; probably something to do with the kids before they got home.
He was just walking back into the living room after getting himself a cup of coffee, when he stopped. The couch the vigilante had been lying on for the past few hours was empty, a note lying on the edge.
Carefully putting down his coffee, he walked around to pick up the note.
Thank-you, it simply read. There was a shaky doodle of a spider drawn at the bottom.
Jack looked up to find one of the windows was hanging open.
Shaking his head to himself, he safely pocketed the note, and reached over to pull the window closed.
Updates will continue to be sporadic and a little longer than we'd like. Because this is co-written, there's a lot of time consuming emailing. Thanks everyone for being amazing and patient! :) Buckle in for increasing levels of Spidey/NYC :)